


Babysitting

by wheel_pen



Series: Viridian Miranda [5]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fish out of Water, Gen, Imprinting, Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm is going away on a super-secret mission—alone—and Trip is designated to take care of Miranda. It’s a tough job, especially when the Enterprise is attacked by squid aliens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Viridians appear human, but are actually aliens who imprint on other people (Viridian or otherwise) and form a bond with them. They also live their entire life cycle in about six Earth years.
> 
> 2\. In each series, a different character is a Viridian, who was raised by mean Klingons on an outpost. An Enterprise crewmember is captured by the Klingons and they inadvertently form a bond with the Viridian, who helps them escape. Then they return to rescue the Viridian and bring them aboard the Enterprise. The Viridian homeworld is contacted and the Enterprise crew learn the Viridian will most likely die if they are sent away. So they end up staying on the Enterprise, and the crewmember has to adjust.
> 
> 3\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

"So you're really going off on some kind of top-secret mission, huh?" Trip grinned.

"I can't comment on that," Malcolm replied flatly, then glanced up from his data pad to measure Trip's reaction.

"Ha ha," the engineer told him. "How long will you be gone?"

"About a week," Reed shrugged.

"But you can't tell me where you're going or what you're gonna do there?" Trip guessed. He seemed far more excited by the idea than Malcolm was. Which was probably good, as Malcolm was the one actually _going_. "Or, you _could_ tell me, but then you'd have to kill me, right?"

Reed frowned at his friend. "I wouldn't _kill_ you," he insisted, then turned thoughtful. "Although a good memory wipe would be necessary. And those can have... unpredictable side effects." Trip's grin paled a little as he realized how thoroughly Malcolm was thinking about this. Malcolm didn't seem to notice and after a moment added, "I do have a favor to ask you, though."

"Name it."

"I need someone to look after Miranda while I'm gone."

Trip narrowed his eyes at his friend, feeling slightly ambushed. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—what do you mean, 'look after'?"

"It's quite simple," Reed assured him. "She's hardly any trouble at all."

Trip didn't quite believe _that_. "What _exactly_ does this entail?"

Malcolm promptly handed him a data pad. "I've written up everything you need to know," he explained matter-of-factly, and Trip realized his participation was a foregone conclusion. "I've left her a list of chores to do in the Armory, and she attends all the sparring sessions each week, so—"

Trip stared at the schedule Malcolm had mapped out for him. "What— _all_ the defense training sessions?" There were four each week just for Malcolm's people, plus another three for the rest of the crew.

"Of course," Reed replied, as though that were only reasonable. "Now my staff is used to working with her, but if at any point she should get too aggressive, you can call Dr. Phlox."

"What's he gonna do?" Trip asked in confusion.

"Tranquilizer darts," Reed told him off-hand. "Never had to use them, of course, but theoretically they should work." Trip was suddenly not comfortable trusting his or another's safety to mere theory, not when the alternative was Miranda being even _more_ ticked off at him for shooting her with darts.

"I don't know," Trip hesitated. He was waffling and he knew it, but d----t, this was a big responsibility. "Maybe Phlox would be better—"

Malcolm was already shaking his head. "Miranda would get bored in Sickbay. Besides, she likes you."

Trip frowned at him. "How can you tell?"

"It's subtle," Malcolm agreed. Quickly he turned back to the matter at hand. "So the main thing you have to do is just let her follow you around all day."

"That's it," Trip remarked skeptically.

"You don't even have to pay attention to her," Reed assured him. "But, if you like, you can give her simple errands to run, or some basic jobs to do. The methodical, tedious jobs that no one else likes to do, for example."

For the first time Trip began to see a bit of upside to the situation. "Well, there _are_ a couple of the plasma tubes that need to be scrubbed out..."

"Perfect!" Malcolm encouraged. "She would love to do that. The other thing is, you have to make sure she eats at _least_ four times a day."

"Wait—four times?!"

Malcolm gave him a slightly reproachful look. "She has a very high metabolism, you know," he pointed out. "And she tends to not eat if she gets upset."

Trip sighed. He had a feeling this was going to be _far_ more work than Malcolm thought. _He_ might have Miranda trained to a T; but when the object of her adoration, the gravitational center around which her entire universe revolved, was suddenly out of contact and a dozen lightyears away, who knew _what_ she would do? Being too upset to eat might be the _least_ of her problems.

"Now, if you want to play with her—" Malcolm went on, but Trip interrupted him.

"Play with her?!"

"It's optional," Malcolm allowed coolly, "but it would put her in a better mood. Usually I hide one of her toys—her ball or one of her bells, for example—somewhere on the ship, and she has to find it." Trip rolled his eyes, having caught her at this more than once. "You have to give her a bit of clue where it is, or else she'll be crawling over the entire ship all day." And didn't _that_ just give Trip ideas for keeping her out of his hair for a long time. "She also enjoys just about any sort of sparring or target practice."

"Let's get one thing straight," Trip told him, trying to salvage what he could from the situation. "I am _definitely_ not letting her beat the c—p out of me for fun, alright?"

"Well you don't have to if you don't _want_ to," Malcolm agreed, sounding as though he couldn't imagine why anyone _wouldn't_ want to.

Trip sighed and glanced over the rest of the information on the data pad. "How long are you gonna be gone?" he repeated. Malcolm just smiled at him, slightly smug.

 

They made the official handover just before Reed headed down to the Launch Bay to start his mission, flying off alone in the shuttlepod for parts unknown. It all sounded rather dangerous to Trip, especially when the nearest system was too far to reach in the pod given Malcolm's timeframe; even if a ship were coming to pick him up, he would still be out in open space, alone, and vulnerable. Being the ship's Armory Officer wouldn't count for a whole lot if some alien vessel wanted to blast him out of space, not with the meager defensive systems of the shuttlepod.

Miranda seemed relatively calm, all things considered. Her eyes were red and puffy but she wasn't actually crying at the moment; instead she just looked sorrowful, as if Malcolm were willingly walking off to his doom to save them all. Needless to say breakfast was a tad dreary.

"Now, you're going to be a good girl while I'm gone," Malcolm ascertained, "and listen to Commander Tucker and do what he says. Right?"

Miranda's expression seemed to say, after all the torment you're about to put me through by leaving, you want to extract yet _more_ from me?

Malcolm's gaze in reply was stern and expectant.

Trip wondered just what the h—l they were actually saying to each other, and how he could possibly get Miranda to listen to _him_ without that kind of connection.

Finally, staring at the eggs she was pushing listlessly around her plate, Miranda nodded. Trip dearly hoped she felt some kind of moral imperative to obey promises she'd made to Malcolm.

"Good," Malcolm commented. His tone was casual, but Trip noticed he hadn't eaten any of his _own_ breakfast either.

 

The first thing Trip did after Malcolm left was to send Miranda down to the Armory to do something from the list she'd been given. He thought maybe being in familiar surroundings would perk her up a bit. And also he wasn't eager to start having a morose little shadow trailing behind him. He had been hoping she might have regular duties in the Armory, but apparently the Captain's trust in her didn't extend that far (or very far at all, in fact): she wasn't allowed to have any tasks that were solely her responsibility, in case she just didn't do them one day.

By mid-morning, though, it seemed as though the Armory staff couldn't stand her moping anymore and sent her along to Engineering. She nearly sent Trip tumbling off the warp platform in surprise when she materialized silently beside him.

"J---s!" he cursed, trying to calm his racing heart. She was unmoved by his display of emotion. "Um—what happened to your bell thingy?" Insane though the jingle might someday drive him, at least it meant she couldn't sneak up on him.

"I'm not wearing it."

Well, obviously. "Why not?"

"I took it off."

This was going to be a very long week. Wondering why he even bothered, Trip made one more attempt. "Why'd you take it off?"

"The sound made me sad."

Well, if that wasn't the sorriest thing Trip had ever heard. He immediately felt a bit guilty and tried to soften his approach. "Well, if you're looking for something to do, I've got a plasma tube to be scrubbed out." Miranda sniffed, not making eye contact. Trip chose to interpret this as being disinterested but not unwilling. "Ensign Ramirez can get you started—"

Blazing blue eyes snapped up to his, now unmistakably displeased. " _Who?_ "

Ah, that was better. That was the Miranda he knew. The Miranda who point-blank refused to learn the name of anyone Malcolm hadn't introduced her to, despite having walked right by the woman at least once a week for the past six months.

"Why don't I just show you?" Trip decided.

 

Trip would have worked straight through lunchtime, except he had _someone_ he was supposed to look after. Approaching the plasma tube he'd sent Miranda to, his scanner showed she'd only cleaned about a third of it—but that third was so perfectly scrubbed, they probably wouldn't need to tackle the much-loathed chore for a year, at least.

"Come on, let's go get some lunch," he told her, after his compliments were met with unimpressed silence.

"Okay."

Trip started at her response and wondered if she was just messing with him—he'd expected a long series of arguments about how she wasn't hungry. Instead she just climbed out of the tube and followed him to the Mess Hall, eyes downcast, unwilling to engage in any kind of conversation or acknowledge anything he said. People passing them in the hall probably thought he'd just finished beating her or something.

"Ooh, lookit this, fried chicken salad and pecan pie," Trip remarked happily, pulling the items off the shelf. He imagined that the only reason he kept speaking to Miranda despite her lack of response was the same reason Jon liked to talk to Porthos. Whatever reason that was.

Balancing the two dishes while he filled a glass from the wall dispenser, Trip kept an eye on Miranda, to make sure she actually chose something. She appeared to be deep in thought before the food cases. "What're you gonna get?" he finally prodded, contorting himself a little to keep the beautiful piece of pie from sliding to the floor. Miranda of course made no move to assist him, even though he had in the past witnessed her toting food for Malcolm in a manner that would make the most hardened waitress proud.

"I don't know."

Willing himself to have patience, Trip asked, "What do you like?" The daily menu wasn't exactly boundless, but there was always a sandwich, a salad, a couple of vegetarian dishes, and three main entrees. Surely that should be enough of a choice.

"I don't know." Trip sighed and repositioned his plates. "I always get what Malcolm gets," Miranda added. Trip tried to just be pleased she'd felt like saying anything else.

"Well, I'm getting the chicken salad," he pointed out helpfully.

"You're not Malcolm."

Trip rolled his eyes and noticed the small line forming impatiently behind them. "Get the Salisbury steak," he told her firmly. Salisbury was an English place, wasn't it? Maybe that was what Malcolm would eat if he were here.

She did as she was told but stopped short of actually eating any of the food when they had sat down at a table. "So what's your favorite food?" Trip asked her conversationally, without expectation of an answer.

"Pineapple," she replied automatically, poking at the meat.

"That's _Malcolm's_ favorite," Trip corrected her. "In fact"—he thought back to a blinking, highlighted section of the data pad Reed had left with him—"you can't even _eat_ pineapple, can you?"

"It hurts when I eat it," she confirmed.

"Well, what's your favorite food that you _can_ eat?"

He watched her think. It was a visible process. "I don't know," Miranda finally concluded. Well, she'd tried, he'd give her that.

Trip shook his head, hoping someone came along to join them. "Eat up," he reminded her. After a few slow and reluctant bites had been consumed, he queried, "Is it good?"

"I don't know," she replied, faster and more frustrated this time. "I can't tell." There was a pause, and Trip was going to give up on the whole topic. "Does it matter?" Miranda suddenly asked him.

For a moment Trip was stunned, just because he couldn't remember Miranda ever asking him a non-work-related question she expected an answer to. "Um—sure, yeah, it matters," he assured her. "I mean, eating something that tastes good to you is one of life's greatest pleasures." He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. "Do you think it would taste good if Malcolm were here, eating the same thing?"

"No," she told him confidently. "Malcolm doesn't like eating very much. He says if he could just take a pill he would."

Trip shrugged. "Well, some people enjoy it more than others. But," he added, "even Malcolm had a _few_ foods he likes."

"I guess."

Nothing more seemed forthcoming, but that was okay; she'd already spoken far more than Trip would have predicted. "Well, finish your plate," he told her. "Then you can get back to cleaning that tube." He figured, for her, that might count as an enticement.

 

Ostensibly, Archer was reading over the latest scintillating duty reports; in reality he was seriously thinking about sneaking off to his Ready Room to check out the latest water polo results, and just trying to come up with an excuse to tell T'Pol that the Vulcan wouldn't immediately see through. It wasn't his fault, really. If Vulcans only had sports, she would understand.

"Captain," T'Pol said suddenly, into the silent Bridge, and Archer jumped a little, wildly imagining that she had somehow read his mind and was chastising him in advance. When he looked up at her, however, she merely nodded towards the back of the Bridge.

Archer swiveled his chair around but saw nothing unusual and gave his First Officer a questioning look. "Miranda," T'Pol summoned coolly, sounding the tiniest bit peeved.

A small blond head popped up from under the console. "Yes?"

Archer narrowed his eyes at the young woman, realizing she must have just snuck onto the Bridge from parts unknown. He wasn't used to dealing with her directly—or at all, really--but he tried to keep his voice reasonably friendly. "Is there something we can help you with?"

"No." She ducked back out of sight.

Archer exchanged another look with T'Pol. Her gaze in response seemed to say, _You're the Captain. You deal with it._ Archer stood and leaned over the railing that separated the two parts of the Bridge. Miranda was crawling around on the floor, diligently examining the underside of the console in the middle of the alcove.

"Um, Miranda," he began, hoping his voice sounded captainly enough but rather afraid it didn't, "what are you doing?"

"Looking."

Well, that explained... exactly nothing. "Looking for _what_ , exactly?" Archer persisted, willing patience into himself.

Having completed her inspection of the back of the Bridge, Miranda moved forward to the main stations, starting with Tactical. Ensign Sundeep, who was in charge of the Armory with Malcolm gone, at least looked a little less uncomfortable with her single-minded presence than the rest of the Bridge crew. Not that Miranda acknowledged him in any way, of course, although she probably saw him every day.

"My ball," she suddenly said, so long after Archer had asked the question that he'd almost forgotten it.

"Your ball," Archer repeated dully.

"Sir?" Ensign Sundeep offered. "Sometimes Lieutenant Reed hides it around the ship and has her find it. It's a game, sir."

"Right," Archer remarked, still keeping a wary eye on the blond. She was now crawling around the helm, seriously freaking Travis out. "Miranda, I don't think your ball is here."

"Commander Tucker said he hid it here," she countered flatly, eyeing Hoshi's station.

"Oh did he," the Captain replied with a grimace, punching the comm button on his chair. "Archer to Tucker."

" _Yes, sir?_ " his Chief Engineer answered innocently.

"Got a minute, Trip?" Archer asked with false pleasantry. "Can you come up to the Bridge?"

" _Yeah, I guess so_ ," Trip agreed. " _Something wrong?_ "

"Just have a question for you."

" _Okay, be there in just a minute._ "

It was a futile effort trying to talk to Miranda. Archer had discovered this long ago. Malcolm insisted she was very intelligent and allowed her to do a surprising number of tasks around the Armory, probably more than the Captain was comfortable knowing about; but then again Malcolm seemed to know exactly what she was talking about when she said next to nothing. Or nothing that made sense. It was a slow day on the ship, at least, so Archer didn't mind wasting a few minutes sitting in his chair with his hand on his chin, idly watching Miranda scrutinize the Science station while T'Pol came as close to glaring at him as she ever had.

"She has an amazing level of concentration, you have to give her that," he commented.

T'Pol's look said she'd rather give the girl—and possibly the Captain—a good swift kick. "As does Porthos when presented with a piece of cheddar," she replied icily.

A moment later T'Pol's expression was the tiniest, tiniest bit smug when it was _Archer's_ boots Miranda was nudging out of the way so she could pore over every crevice in his chair. _Now would be a really great time for the Vulcan High Command to call,_ he thought dryly.

Instead Archer heard the sound of the lift opening behind him and an exasperated Southern accent snap, "Miranda!" She barely looked up at him.

Archer tried to turn his chair to face Trip without knocking into Miranda. He had a tight smile on his face. "Commander. Could I see you in my Ready Room?" Trip's shoulders dropped ten centimeters in a defeated slump.

Seeing that they were headed towards a new room, Miranda apparently decided to follow them as she continued the quest for her toy. Archer thought about shutting her out, then reasoned it might be a better idea to keep her in sight. She swiftly began snuffling around the Ready Room.

"You hid her _ball_ on the _Bridge_?!" Archer hissed at Trip, trying to keep his voice low. Not that he thought Miranda would pay attention to them even if they started shouting at each other.

"What? No!" Trip protested. "I told her I hid it on A-deck, yeah, but—not the _Bridge_." He turned to the girl. "Miranda, I told you not to come on the Bridge, didn't I?!" He was ignored. Archer gave him a look of pure rebuke and Trip crumpled. "Look, Captain, she's drivin' me _crazy_ ," he confessed. "She's been mopin' around the ship for _three days_ , moonin' over Malcolm. He said this was a game they played, I thought maybe it would put her in a better mood."

Archer rolled his eyes and tried to sit down in his desk chair, only to find Miranda had shoved it aside and was digging under his desk. "Trip, come on, how hard could it be to find something to keep her occupied with? I mean, Malcolm's always got something for her to do..."

"Believe me, sir, I _know_ ," Trip assured him. "But I'm _exhausted_ tryin' to look after her. I can't even sleep at night." Indeed, there _did_ seem to be dark circles growing under the engineer's eyes.

Archer began to get a little worried. "You can't sleep? Maybe you're _too_ worried about this Trip, if it's keeping you up at night—"

" _She's_ what's keepin' me up at night," Trip contradicted, nodding accusingly towards Miranda, who was scrounging under the couch. "She tosses and turns, hogs the blankets, kicks me in the night—"

Archer's mouth fell open a little. "You're _sleeping_ with her?!"

"More like layin' on the edge of the mattress slowly goin' insane," Trip replied bitterly, glaring at her. Then he caught his friend's meaning and rushed to clarify, "She said that's what Malcolm does, lets her sleep in the bed with him! She come to my cabin the other night and just _refused_ to leave." He heaved a sigh, leaning heavily on Archer's desk. "I don't know how I'm gonna last the rest of the week."

Archer made an executive decision. To pass this problem off to someone else. "Tell you what, Trip," he began, rounding the desk, "let's all go down to Sickbay, and see if maybe Phlox has something—"

He was interrupted by Miranda frisking the only unexamined object left in the room, namely Trip. At least, not counting Archer, who was afraid he would be next. "Hey, what the—Would you just—Stop—"

Suddenly Miranda unzipped one of the pockets on Trip's jumpsuit and Archer really thought he was going to have to order her detained for assault. And when he saw the furious expression on her face when she pulled a red rubber ball out of the pocket, he started edging towards the comm. "My ball!" she pointed out accusingly. "You said you hid it!"

Trip's face radiated guilt. "Erm, um, yeah, well... I hid it... in my pocket?" he tried lamely.

"You said it was on A-deck," Miranda reminded him, advancing on the retreating engineer.

Archer decided that unfortunately it was his duty, as captain, to interfere and protect his crewmember's life. "Miranda," he began firmly—then faltered when she whirled around, eyes blazing at _him_ now. "Um, I'm sure Trip could hide your ball somewhere else. B-deck, for example." Trip nodded eagerly when she glanced at him.

"I don't wanna play anymore," she announced instead, the fury suddenly replaced by sorrow. "I wanna see Malcolm."

Trip's look over her head said to Archer, _You see what I mean_? "Malcolm will be back in a few days," Archer assured her. "He's on a very important mission. I'm sure—"

" _I WANNA SEE MALCOLM!!!_ " How could such a big noise come out of such a little creature, Archer wondered as he jumped backwards in surprise. He and Trip met near the couch, instinctively joining up against the unpredictable third party in the room. They both watched, transfixed, as she started to screw up her pretty face and take a deep breath, as if in preparation for another, even more deck-shaking outburst, when Trip suddenly ripped something else out of his pocket and thrust it at her.

"Whistle!" he said quickly, desperately.

Miranda paused, her mouth open to scream, and regarded the bit of metal in his hand suspiciously. "What?"

"It's a whistle," Trip told her, grinning madly. Archer watched them _both_ warily now. "It's a present."

"A present." Miranda seemed familiar with this concept.

"Yeah, yeah," Trip agreed readily. "I made it for you. See, you put it in your mouth and blow on it. It makes a noise. Go on, try it."

Miranda took the small piece of metal and put it to her lips as Trip directed. It took her a moment to get the hang of it, but soon a shrill and tinny toot began emanating from the whistle. It seemed to appeal to her.

"This is better?" Archer whispered to Trip, wincing as she realized she could increase the volume of the noise by blowing harder.

"Better than her screaming," Trip told him.

"What did you say about those tranquilizer darts?" Archer reminded him, trying to surreptitiously put his hand over his ear.

"I'll take her back to Engineering," Trip sighed. "The machinery should help drown out the noise." Another high-pitched bleat. "I hope."

"Thank you," Miranda told Trip politely as they left the Ready Room, holding up the whistle.

"Yeah, you're welcome," he replied. He was cut off by another metallic squeal that drew the attention of everyone on the Bridge. "Hi," Trip commented to the staring officers, waving a little as he herded Miranda into the lift. He was certain he saw Travis and Hoshi, at least, snickering at him.

 

"S—t!" Trip hissed, glancing around the hallway they were crouching in. Archer turned to him quickly. "They're gettin' that slimy stuff all over the deck plating!" The Captain rolled his eyes as if to say they really had more important things to worry about. "It'll be a b---h to get off, is all."

Archer shook his head and took another quick peek around the corner, almost getting his head blown off by an energy weapon for his trouble. The alien invaders were still advancing through the corridors—the large reddish-brown bulbous creatures, reminiscent of giant squid, filled the hallway, trailing mucus from their many tentacles over every surface. Even if they _hadn't_ had the energy weapons, Archer suspected their greater strength, plus the nasty sharp beaks in the middle of their... heads? bodies? would still give them the advantage over the humans. T'Pol was holding down the Bridge with Hoshi frantically working on a translation for their screechy language, but Archer had a feeling it wasn't a simple miscommunication that had led the creatures to force their way onto the ship. With half a dozen crewmembers already in need of medical attention, not to mention the damage the ship had suffered, he was willing to assume a hostile intent at this point. Worst of all? Phase pistols didn't seem to bother them in the slightest.

It wasn't the first time Archer had wished his Tactical Officer were back aboard. But it _was_ the most fervent.

And speaking of which—"Trip!" Archer snapped in a hushed voice. "Where's Miranda?"

Trip jerked his head around to look behind him and something stronger than exasperation flew across his face. "G-------t. She was right behind me."

"You should've left her in Engineering!" Archer pointed out irritably.

"I couldn't do that!" Trip protested. "Malcolm would kill me if anything happened to her!"

Archer was about to remind Trip that now they had _no_ idea where Miranda was, which was surely even worse, when he heard an alarmingly familiar sound. A whistle. He and Trip exchanged frantic glances, then Archer risked a look around the corner. When he didn't turn back right away Trip recklessly clambered over him to get a look himself.

Miranda was standing in the middle of the hallway, unarmed, facing down the two lead squid aliens. Her hands were on her hips. Her face was resolute. Her whistle was on her lips.

The squid aliens screeched at her, apparently confused, at least for the moment. Miranda blew on the whistle again, louder. The squid aliens screeched back, agitated.

"Miranda!" Archer and Trip were frenetically whispering and signaling to her to dive around the corner to relative safety with them. The young woman looked at them, rolled her eyes, and went back to blowing her whistle, even louder and longer than before.

"Look, look," Archer nudged Trip a moment later, gesturing to the aliens. They were shaking all over, their gelatinous bodies bubbling and bulging, tentacles flailing.

"What the h—l?" Trip asked, mystified.

The squid aliens were getting very upset now, it appeared, screeching and twitching and oozing, too uncoordinated to even use their weapons. The one closest to Miranda was the worst, practically boiling inside his bumpy, semi-transparent skin, looking for all the world like something nasty in a bag about to explode. Trip couldn't help himself. He pictured Malcolm's eyes dark with fury—at _him_ —and made a mad dash into the open hallway, knocking Miranda over and throwing himself over her just as the lead alien's body gave out, bursting spectacularly all over the hall.

Dead silence followed the blast, and Trip dared to uncurl himself just a little, feeling goo of a particularly viscous and sticky nature sliding down the back of his head, his neck, his hands. His uniform had to be soaked with it, and the thought of where it had just been—not to mention speculation of what the little chunks mixed in it were—began to make him seriously nauseous. A sharp whistle, nearly in his ear, knocked him backwards on the slippery surface, flopping even further into the slime. The second alien screamed then exploded, showering Trip's front with fluid and... organic debris.

The other aliens didn't wait for a similar fate to befall them and beat a hastier retreat than Archer would have thought possible, given their size and configuration. He sent the rest of the security team slip-sliding after them, just to make sure they found the exit, and knelt beside Trip and Miranda. "Are you two okay?" he demanded, reluctant to actually _touch_ their slime-covered bodies, even though his knees were already soaking in it.

"Oh G-d," Trip breathed, climbing shakily up on all fours. "I'm gonna be sick!"

Archer's communicator beeped and he flipped it open impatiently. "Archer here!"

T'Pol's voice was cool and calm. And likely very clean. " _Captain, the alien ship is breaking away._ "

"I'm really gonna be sick," Trip warned, clutching his stomach. Goo was sliding into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, the taste bitter and a little salty as well. He was desperate to wipe it away, but every part of him was covered with it.

" _Captain, do you require medical assistance?_ " T'Pol inquired.

Trip tried to gesture for Archer to close the channel, as he really didn't want the rest of the Bridge crew to hear him puking in the hallway. Unfortunately, just as Jon seemed to be getting the message, a chunk of an internal organ, or perhaps half-digested squid alien food, slithered by, and he lost it completely... and loudly... and extensively. _Ad nauseam_ , one might say. Jon was starting to turn a little green around the gills himself as he tried to be supportive and pat his friend on the back. His hand came away with gooey strands anchored to Trip and Archer shuddered a little, trying to keep his own lunch down.

Archer wasn't sure what he could say over the open channel to the Bridge crew that could adequately follow the exhaustive retching, so he just commented quietly, "Um, we'll be in Sickbay," and closed the communicator.

Trip was lying on the floor now, breathing hard, trying to avoid rolling into the puddle of sick, although he wasn't sure it was actually worse than what he was _already_ rolling in. Archer finally turned to Miranda, who sat quietly in the slime, apparently unbothered by it. "Um, are you okay, Miranda?"

"What a mess," she commented tonelessly. "Malcolm hates messes."

Archer sighed and tried to help Trip to his feet. A shrill whistle caught them both off-guard and they pitched forward into a new pile of goo that splashed stickily around them. "Just leave me," Trip sobbed into Jon's slime-covered chest. "I won't make it!"

"Shut up," Jon ordered him, with exasperation and not just a touch of queasiness himself. "Miranda, no more whistling. Please. I'm begging you."

The young woman popped up, sure-footed in the slippery hall, and shook her head at the men squirming on the floor, as if taking pity on them. "Come on," she told them, yanking each up with one hand. They were nearly flung into the opposing bulkheads, but at least they were on their feet. Trip started to collapse again, having basically given up the will to live if life was going to continue being as slimy and foul as it was at the moment, and Miranda propped him up confidently. "It's okay," she assured him, starting to drag the engineer in the direction of Sickbay. The height disparity would have made the sight comical if Archer weren't barely staggering along himself. "I'll look after you. Until Malcolm gets back." Given that her flat tone was vaguely threatening instead of comforting, Archer wasn't surprised at the despairing bawl Trip let out in response.

 

No one was surprised when Miranda was _thrilled_ to have Malcolm home again. "And have you been a good girl while I've been gone?" he asked her cheerfully. She nodded enthusiastically. Trip bit his tongue, but Malcolm saw the expression of extreme restraint and tried to keep from smirking himself. He had a feeling there were going to be some very entertaining stories forthcoming. "And what have you been doing?"

"I saved the ship with my whistle!" Miranda announced, holding up the small bit of metal. The tune had deepened somewhat since Phlox had sterilized the slime off, but it was still annoying as h—l. As Malcolm discovered when she blew it. Twice.

"What a lovely toy," he told her dryly, snatching it away. "Where'd you get this?"

"Commander Tucker gave it to me," she explained. Trip nodded, unable to meet Malcolm's eyes. "I blew it and there was a mess but I took care of him." Trip squirmed, deeply uncomfortable, lower half of his face completely hidden by his twisting hand.

"Oh, don't worry, Trip," Malcolm assured him chummily. "I'm sure whatever happened can't be that terrible. I mean, as long as you didn't do something really unforgivable like sleep with her." He chuckled a little at the thought—right before Trip gave up and dropped his head to the tabletop with an painful-sounding smack. Malcolm's grin widened as he realized just exactly how much mileage he could get out of all this, even though he had little idea what precisely 'all this' was. Schooling his features into confused concern, he shook his friend's shoulder a little. "Trip? Are you alright?"

"I wasn't supposed to sleep with him?" Miranda asked innocently. Trip cringed bodily and threw his arms over his head protectively, and Malcolm finally couldn't stand it anymore.

Trip looked up when he heard the unusually hearty laughter from his normally reserved friend. It was kind of a nice sound. But then Trip realized _he_ was one being laughed at. "You are such a b-----d," he told Malcolm, pushing himself up indignantly. "I am never babysitting her again!"

Miranda made an upset-sounding whine in the back of her throat. "Oh, Trip," Malcolm replied, half-chastising, half-placating. "But you're so good at it! You give her toys, let her take care of you, let her sleep in the same bed with you!"

"Just shut up. Shut up."

"What do you think, my dear?" Malcolm asked Miranda. "Don't you want to see a _lot_ more of Uncle Trip in the future?"

Miranda frowned at the engineer. "He didn't hide my ball right," she pointed out.

"Oh no?" commented Malcolm, suddenly mock-severe. He grinned after a moment, letting Trip off the hook. Or so he thought. "Well," he continued, slightly mystified, "perhaps you could at least explain what Travis said to me in the Launch Bay—something about, 'say hello to Commander Upchuck'?"

Trip heaved a huge sigh and put his head back down on his arms. There was no way, no _possible_ way, he could get out of this situation intact.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miranda's POV

People don't think I'm very smart. They would be surprised to learn I'm aware of even _that_ much, I think. In a sense I can't blame them; it's difficult for me to communicate with people even when I want to, and much of the time, I _don't_ really want to. So they don't understand _me_ , and they end up thinking I don't understand _them_. It's frustrating; I hate being condescended to. Yet I can't figure out how to explain myself to them. The words just come out incorrectly, my body language is all wrong, my tone doesn't match my intent. I blame this problem on the Klingons; their speech and behavior patterns are what I grew up seeing, even though they weren't exactly going out of their way to teach them to me.

Malcolm says if I can't explain who I am to people with words, I have to _show_ it in actions, slowly, little by little, until they finally understand. It's not easy, not at all, but that's what Malcolm had to do, is _still_ doing. Not that anyone would dare think Malcolm wasn't very smart; but they question his skills, his determination, his judgment, his strength. Not so much on _Enterprise_ now, but the scars from his childhood run deep.

Malcolm understands me, of course. He's the only person who does, because he doesn't need words or even actions to know how I'm feeling, what I'm thinking. He says the bond between people like us doesn't usually work that way, that usually _I_ would be able to sense his feelings and thoughts but not the reverse. Perhaps, if I didn't have him as a crutch, my verbal communication skills would be forced to develop more; but of course if given a choice I would never give up anything I have with Malcolm, no matter what was offered in return.

Malcolm communicates with the world for me—not that I have much to say, of course, as usually I'm perfectly content to do as _he_ does, eat what he eats, go where he goes. He has enough wants for the both of us. The main thing _I_ want is to be near him. Malcolm protects me--more in a social sense than in a defensive one, as in hostile situations I am usually rushing to _his_ aid—shields me from the people and situations that make me uncomfortable, explains things to me, helps me figure out how to interact with people. He's a very private individual but he's opened his life to me—his (rather cramped) quarters, his place of work, his mind, his heart. I know more about Malcolm than anyone else ever has in his life, more than anyone else ever could no matter how intimate they became. The idea of this terrified him at first, I know, but no one could ever say Malcolm is a coward, someone who runs from what must be done. He embraces me, he holds nothing back from me, he doesn't try to distance or separate himself from me in any way.

With my poor use of words, I certainly can't express how much he means to me because of all he's done, all he is; even in my own head I can only think that I love him so much it hurts, like a hand squeezing my lungs, tightening my chest. Many of the novels I've read say that love is supposed to make you feel joyous or elated, like everything is right in the universe. Those are only works of fiction, of course, but sometimes I _do_ feel that way, at night usually when Malcolm and I are curled up in bed together, not quite asleep, just "talking," with everyone safe and quiet.

Maybe it's natural that I worry so much, because his job is so dangerous. His duty, after all, which he's sworn to do, which he _wants_ to do, is to protect the ship and the crew, no matter what, even if it means giving up his own life. That was the first thing he explained to me, when we realized we were linked forever: that his duty came first, in the sense that I _must_ allow him to perform it without interfering, without trying to save him, if that would only make things worse. Fortunately this situation doesn't occur very often; but those few times it has, there is nothing in the universe that I can imagine being more painful for me.

Everything I remember of my childhood is pain; the people I like most on _Enterprise_ still cause me pain, not to mention everyone else; every trip to an alien ship or world is painful, never knowing what might be around the corner; even following some of Malcolm's strongest rules brings me pain. So perhaps it isn't surprising that I find love painful as well yet am not especially bothered by it.

Dr. Phlox would have a field day with me. I could give his exopsychology degrees a real work-out.

I say all this—about Malcolm, about my life—so you will have a better understanding of what it's like for me to lose him. Not permanently, no, just for a week. But for me a week is an eternity. Another point of difficulty for me—my species' sense of time seems to be different from humans, as we apparently live out our entire lives in just six Earth years. It's not exactly an accurate conversion, but if a month for me is like a year for a human, then a week for me is like three months. And three months is a _very_ long time to be without the person you love most in the entire universe, the one who lets you see the universe through his eyes and shields you from its thorns.

He left me in the care of Commander Tucker, his best friend (aside from me, of course). I like Commander Tucker. He's funny and charming, an inherently decent man who wears his heart on his sleeve. Malcolm respects him greatly, and he makes Malcolm laugh. In many ways they're very much opposites, of course; I feel shy around him, because I don't understand him at all. If someone were like Malcolm, at least I might have some idea of what to expect or what to do, but Commander Tucker seems to desire responses that never even occur to me, let alone that I can express to his satisfaction. I do like him, as I said; but I like watching him interact with Malcolm better than I like interacting with him myself.

Malcolm asked me, of course, who I wanted designated to look after me while he was gone, and I couldn't suggest any alternative to Commander Tucker. I know I'm a serious responsibility, not to be left with a subordinate in the Armory or a casual acquaintance; my physical needs aren't really that important—I can feed myself, after all—but I take for granted all the emotional support Malcolm provides for me, which another person would find impossible to replicate. We both knew Commander Tucker would get frustrated with me, and that he wouldn't be able to hide it even if he wanted to, but we also knew he would never give up trying to understand what I needed. That's what Malcolm really wanted—someone who would be committed to interacting with me, who wouldn't just stick me in a corner for a week.

It was so hard watching Malcolm leave. Not as hard as watching him be willingly injured for the sake of the ship; but almost. It was like part of my heart was trapped on that shuttlepod, being ripped out of me as the pod flew away. Of course Malcolm and I were still connected; but the incomprehensibly vast distances of space, not to mention the amount of focus Malcolm needed to maintain to complete this latest task, dulled the specificity of our bond. If trouble arose, trouble that Malcolm needed my help to overcome, I could still have directed _Enterprise_ to him, in an instant. But I was not to risk distracting him by sending out thoughts and feelings forcefully. All I could do was, sometimes, listen in on _his_ mind, when I was certain I could keep myself quiet and still while doing so. It wasn't much, but it was far, far better than nothing.

Commander Tucker tried, he really did. He sent me down to the Armory, a place of familiarity for me, to do some tasks Malcolm had left for me, but I could only stay there so long before the memories overwhelmed me and I had to leave. It almost made me smile, to see how much he jumped when I "snuck up" on him in Engineering—I knew he was expecting to be warned to my presence by the bell Malcolm had given me, that I usually wore around my wrist. It took some doing but I finally managed to explain to him why I had removed it—another reminder, not of happy times but of what I was missing. He even had a plasma tube for me to scrub out—the kind of work I enjoy, because it requires focus yet somehow lets me clear my mind. Malcolm says it's like meditation for me, the technique T'Pol and other crew members use to help them maintain a sense of calm and balance. For a couple of hours I could sit in a quiet, still place and think of nothing but removing specks of dust and grime from the tube, of making what was dirty clean, of bringing order to chaos. Malcolm doesn't like dirt or chaos, and neither do I.

Our first lunch was a different story. Malcolm had told me how important it was that I eat while he was gone; he knew that my appetite would desert me as surely as my heart did. He must have told Commander Tucker the same thing—I'm sure the man would have worked through his lunch break, as usual, if I hadn't been there. So perhaps I was able to do him a bit of good as well.

Commander Tucker likes to keep up a steady stream of conversation—well, not exactly conversation, as much of the time he doesn't seem to expect that I'll answer, or he doesn't _need_ me to answer in order to go on to something else. I prefer quiet when there's nothing that needs to be said, but it's still better than the people who stare at me until I come up with some sort of answer to their questions.

When it came time to choose a meal I was presented with a dilemma. I usually get whatever Malcolm gets. This is not because he somehow controls my mind or my tastes, as people often assume. It's because I really don't care that much about food. I know I need to eat it for the nutrients, and I do; but I don't find it particularly enjoyable. And while Malcolm _does_ have a few things he prefers, he isn't terribly interested in food either. I suppose that, again, Malcolm and I are influenced by our childhoods in this matter. Malcolm was taught to eat whatever was put in front of him, and be glad of it; I on the other hand have a great deal of experience with food preparation, of the sort to put me off food entirely. At least when Malcolm's here, he helps me see a plate of pasta as something nutritious and mildly appealing, instead of as something reminiscent of day-old _gagh_.

I knew Commander Tucker was getting impatient with me as I stood there staring at the food in the case, but I couldn't help myself. I really didn't know which plate to take. None of them looked appetizing in the slightest. Finally he pointedly suggested a meal for me to choose, for which I was grateful; I think I could have stood there all day and never made up my mind.

We did have an interesting conversation over lunch, though, at least as much of a conversation as I've had with anyone except for Malcolm. Commander Tucker _loves_ food, unsurprisingly; he called it "one of life's greatest pleasures." I'm sure it would be as easy for me to understand that concept as it would be for Commander Tucker to understand certain things about _me_. People talk about flavors, textures, scents, even sounds working together to create some kind of pleasurable experience with food; perhaps my senses just aren't that highly attuned, because most foods don't have very distinctive characteristics to me. I can tell salad from steak, of course; but I certainly can't pick out different herbs in a sauce or appreciate different cuts of the same kind of meat.

Then Commander Tucker asked me if I thought the steak would taste good if Malcolm were here, eating it. I thought that was a very perceptive question, especially coming from him—I would have expected him to just make some sort of blanket statement, to assume that of _course_ it would taste good if Malcolm were here, because I don't have an opinion of my own about anything. Well, perhaps it would be harsh of me to think that Commander Tucker would go _that_ far. But I was still surprised by the question. Of course, the answer was 'no.' I doubt the steak would taste _good_ to me, as Malcolm would not likely be relishing it the way he does forbidden pineapple or certain curries. But it might have tasted _better_.

 

I was so furious with Commander Tucker today, though. Really, really furious. He was trying to be nice to me, or so I thought, by setting up one of my favorite games. It's very simple in concept but complex in execution: Malcolm hides a small red ball on the ship somewhere and tells me to find it, with only a vague generalization of the hiding spot to assist me. I can spend hours looking for the ball. When I want more "meditation" time I can busy myself by focusing on a hint of red anywhere among the grey panels and black screens; on the other hand I can also use problem-solving skills to eliminate unlikely hiding spots and uncover ones I may have missed. After all the crawling around I've done throughout _Enterprise_ , I have a working knowledge of many non-traditional shortcuts, which have certainly come in handy during hostile situations. I _might_ even know the ship better than Commander Tucker, if only because I can fit in places where he certainly can't.

Commander Tucker told me he hid the ball somewhere on A-deck. Fair enough. I started looking with enthusiasm. As I hunted through the common areas and easily-removable access panels I could almost pretend it was Malcolm I would be returning the ball to, Malcolm's proud expression I would see when I retrieved the ball he thought he'd hidden so cleverly. I knew I really _wouldn't_ see him, of course; but for a few hours I could imagine it.

But then I began to get frustrated. I had searched everywhere I was allowed to go on A-deck, racked my brain to come up with any special compartments or nooks Commander Tucker might employ, and I couldn't think of any other place to look. I started to wonder if perhaps he didn't know the rules—maybe he had put it in someone's quarters, or behind a panel with a warning label which I'm not allowed to touch. Or maybe someone had seen it and picked it up, not knowing what it was—that's certainly happened before.

I didn't want to go back to him and admit defeat—not because of pride and certainly not because of fear, but because I wasn't ready to face the fact that it wouldn't be _Malcolm_ I would return to. Besides which it would all feel like such a waste if I couldn't find the ball because Commander Tucker had put it someplace I wasn't supposed to go.

There was only one place on A-deck I technically had access to but hadn't checked yet—the Bridge. I know I'm not really allowed on the Bridge, certainly not without Malcolm. The place holds little inherent interest for me and I wouldn't have gone up there at all, except for the faint thought that perhaps Commander Tucker _had_ put the ball there, thinking he was being clever. Malcolm always tells me I shouldn't bother Captain Archer or Commander T'Pol, but I knew that Commander Tucker was good friends with Captain Archer and I thought, maybe, as it was a slow day, the Captain wouldn't have minded playing along.

So I went to the Bridge. It quickly became obvious that the Captain had no idea what was going on. I couldn't explain it very well to him, though. In fact I think I might have made things worse somehow. I tried to just focus on finding the ball, finding that spark of red in the grey and black. Focus on Malcolm, the little smile he would have when I found the ball and brought it back to him, the dry comment he would make about how well he'd thought he'd hidden it this time. The next thing I knew Commander Tucker was on the Bridge, and he was annoyed with me. But, he and the Captain started going into the Captain's office, so I thought, well, that was technically part of the Bridge, maybe he had hidden the ball in _there_.

They were discussing me, I think, as I was looking around the office. I wasn't really listening. I was looking under the couch when I happened to glance up at Commander Tucker from an odd angle, and I saw a bulge in one of the pockets of his uniform. A suspicion struck me and I couldn't get rid of it until I'd checked... and sure enough, Commander Tucker hadn't hidden my ball at all. He'd lied to me. He'd had it in his pocket the entire time. I could have searched the whole ship, every room, every panel, every tube, and never found it, the whole time thinking that perhaps I had overlooked something, or that someone had moved it.

I didn't realize how emotionally invested I'd become in the hunt. Even if it wouldn't have been Malcolm praising me for finding the ball, it would have been _someone_ , and I could have survived on that. But Commander Tucker had tricked me. He'd lied to me. He was supposed to take care of me while Malcolm had gone, and he had instead manipulated me to get me out of the way for a few hours, because _he_ was so distraught over his responsibility! I couldn't believe it. I would never have thought he, of all people, would behave that way, and my disappointment was crushing.

When I pulled that ball out of his pocket and realized what he'd done, my whole body just started shaking with rage. I tried to calm myself down, tried to put it in perspective—I could tell from his expression, from his voice, that he didn't think I would take it so seriously. But then I was just overwhelmed with longing for Malcolm. The one person in the universe who could understand my frustration and articulate it for me was the one person who wasn't there—although of course if he'd been here the whole problem wouldn't have come up.

I'm afraid I didn't behave myself very well at that point. Throwing a temper tantrum is childish and immature. I'm above that... usually. But I felt like I had no other way to communicate, to let out the anger and frustration and sadness I was feeling. So I started yelling for Malcolm, even though the rational part of me knew that it wouldn't actually make him appear, and if it somehow _did_ , he'd be very cross with me. I do have to say that the expressions on Captain Archer and Commander Tucker's faces would have been quite funny, if I had been in a position to appreciate them.

Then Commander Tucker pulled something else out of his pocket and gave it to me. He called it a "whistle." The distraction worked quite well. I knew what the _sound_ was, roughly, but I had never heard of an _object_ called that, and I couldn't just pull it out of Malcolm's head like I normally would have. He told me to blow into it to make a noise; when I did I couldn't believe it. The sound that little bit of metal produced was beautiful. It reminded me of the bells Malcolm brings me as gifts, the metal ones at least, although instead of having to constantly shake them to produce the notes, I could make this tone last as long as my breath did. If I had known such a thing existed in the universe, it was exactly what I would have wished for.

And to think that Commander Tucker _made_ it for me as well! I was really very touched by that. I don't know how complicated it was, probably not very for someone of his talent, but it was still something he didn't _have_ to do. I wanted him to know how much I appreciated it—although it wasn't hard to tell that neither he nor Captain Archer were nearly as fond of the whistle's noise as I was. Still, it was almost enough to let me forgive him for the ball trick. Almost.

 

Malcolm hadn't explicitly told me that I was to defend the ship and its crew in his place while he was gone; but I felt I had a duty to represent him somehow, especially with the ship under attack. Of course he doesn't want a hostile situation to develop on a planet or another ship; but there's something special about _Enterprise_ , about wanting to keep its corridors safe, an impregnable fortress, a sanctuary. Granted, that sanctuary has been breached a number of times, but each one just makes Malcolm all the more determined to prevent it in the future. Or at least to make the invaders pay for their trespass.

I remember Malcolm telling me once about a musical note, producible by the human voice, that when sung at the proper volume could shatter glass. That, combined with Commander Tucker's rather violent reactions to the bell bracelets and the whistle, led me to think about the uses of sound in weaponry. Of course I'm not the first person to come up with that idea; the literature is full of theories and experiments, though surprisingly little in the way of finished products. With the aliens already on board I didn't exactly have time to make a lot of dense calculations, but based on the readings taken by internal sensors (thank you, Malcolm, for the security codes) I thought perhaps I would be able to employ such a solution here.

And as it turned out, I was correct, although I had neglected to consider the consequences of the desired result... namely, bodily fluids and entrails spread across the entire hallway. Again, thank the Klingons for making me develop an iron stomach; Commander Tucker was not quite so lucky. I felt badly for him as he'd only gotten so completely drenched because he'd made a misguided attempt to save me, or shield me, or something, during the final standoff. I felt helping him to Sickbay and trying to look after any injuries he might have sustained was the least I could do—especially as he'd provided me with the weapon I used as well. And even though I realized he was not, of course, Malcolm, I still enjoyed having _someone_ to look after, for a little while anyway.

 

Malcolm was very busy when he finally returned home—reports to be made and read, the Armory to inspect, friends to catch up with. A physical exam in Sickbay was just part of the normal routine for him, though this time he was fortunate to be largely intact. But as soon as his official duties were complete we went back to our cabin, just the two of us, and sat on the bed, eating a pile of sandwiches and talking about the week we'd been apart. Malcolm's task was so highly classified he was allowed to discuss it only with Captain Archer, no one else, not even Commander Tucker. Just Captain Archer, and me of course—which goes without saying. I didn't really understand it all, but it didn't matter; the important thing was that Malcolm was back and sharing his thoughts and feelings with me again. There were things that happened, things he thought about, that he couldn't or wouldn't share with Captain Archer, things to speculate over or criticize, and though I couldn't exactly offer intelligent commentary in return, I know it helped him to at least express those ideas.

Then he asked me if Commander Tucker had indeed taken good care of me. The first thing that came to mind was the ball incident. I don't know if I should be ashamed of that or not. It hurt me deeply at the time. I know that wasn't Commander Tucker's intention, though, and I suspected that he would never do it again, after seeing my reaction. I forced myself to move beyond that and consider the rest of the week. He had taken time out of his over-packed schedule to make sure I ate; he had made the whistle for me; he had tried to keep me occupied as Malcolm had specified; he had allowed me to sleep in his bed for him, though I knew how uncomfortable that made him. He had even tried to protect me from the invading aliens. Although I had occasionally questioned his methods, I had never once questioned his intentions.

"He _did_ take good care of you, then?" Malcolm surmised, and there was a deep satisfaction in him, knowing that his friend had overcome the not-inconsiderable obstacles Malcolm had placed in his path. I know some might say that to test one's friends deliberately—in this case by withholding certain ideas from Commander Tucker, and not giving him much time to prepare for my care—is unfair, unethical, uncalled for. I know some might also say that to use me as the being whose care might have suffered unnecessarily is cruel. But Malcolm is tested every day, has been tested every day of his life—is tested, and is testing. He challenges everything and everyone, every day, just as he has always been challenged. I understand that, and I see the necessity for it, in a life like Malcolm's, a job like Malcolm's. Besides, we were both confident that Commander Tucker would succeed—it was more the manner of the success which intrigued Malcolm. Now he has something else to think about regarding his friend, something important that may be useful later on, when the safety of the ship or the crew is at stake.

"Yes, he did take good care of me," I agreed sincerely. He passed his test.

"And you passed yours," Malcolm told me, with that beautiful and incredibly rare smile.

I survived for a week without Malcolm, dependent upon others instead. As I said before, my love is painful. But worth it in the end, to see that smile.


End file.
